The First Time I Fell

by Joanne Macgregor

  “Oh, right. Hi,” I croaked groggily.

  “Have I called too early?”

  I thought I detected judgment in her tone.

  Blinking sleep away, I squinted at the time display on my phone. Seven-thirty. Way too early.

  “Not at all,” I replied.

  “We’d like you to come into the station this morning to check and sign your statements about what you found at the quarry. Is eleven-thirty convenient?”

  “Sure.” I could drop in before I met my mother for lunch at twelve-thirty.

  She ended the call without further niceties. I slumped back into the pillows, but drifting back off to sleep was impossible. I could hear the hounds whining and scratching at the door downstairs. Was this what having kids was like — being on-call all the time? It was probably worse. Dogs didn’t need to have diapers changed or be driven to ballet lessons.

  Running on still-sleepy autopilot, I let the dogs out into the yard, put on the coffeemaker, and poured some muesli into a bowl. When I opened the refrigerator to get milk, I was taken aback to see that there was only a scant inch of wine left in the bottle from last night. Damn, I hadn’t realized I’d drunk that much. Again. Better watch the sauce, I warned myself. It was enough that I was turning into an oddball. I didn’t need to become a drunk, too.

  I kept my nose fixed to the thesis grindstone for two uninterrupted hours, nibbling on sour Skittles while I worked — a trick which helped keep my fingers out of my mouth. Afterwards, I took the dogs for a long walk around the estate, goggling at the mansions with their snow-iced topiary and three-car garages.

  When I passed the gatehouse, the muscly guard trotted over to walk beside me for a way.

  “How you doin’?” he said, Joey-Tribbiani style. “My name is Doug. That's God spelled backward with a little bit of u wrapped up in it.”

  My eyes rolled so hard they nearly came loose entirely. The dogs, who clearly liked this clown, leapt up against him, begging for attention.

  “And your name is Garnet,” Doug said.

  “I know, right?”

  “Sooo … I’d like to hook up sometime.” He extracted a folded piece of paper from his pocket and tried to hand it to me. “Here’s my number.”

  “Oh, no thank you, I already have one.”

  He frowned for a moment, then returned it to his pocket. Did he keep a whole collection there, for ease of distribution?

  “What’s with your eyes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re different colors.”

  “No way! Really? I’ll need to get that seen to.”

  He nodded. “There was a reporter sniffing around here this morning. Soft-looking guy with hair like a girl. Thought he was gonna cry when I denied him entry.”

  “Uh-huh.” I tugged at the dogs, keen to get away.

  “He asked a lot of questions about you, but I told him nothing. Sooo … maybe I could come around to your place later to receive your demonstration of appreciation?” he sang the last words, walking beside me. “I don’t mind your crazy eyes.”

  “Wow.” I stopped and faced him. “I have no words. I mean, I do, but it’s a string of four-letter ones.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means no.”

  He folded his arms, and the seams on his jacket strained. “You’re not very nice, are you?”

  “It’s been said.” I marched off.

  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar?” he called after me.

  I turned around and, walking backward, yelled, “But you catch the most flies with corpses.”

  Back at the Andersen house, I took Ned up on his offer to babysit Darcy and Lizzie, because I didn’t know what time I’d be home.

  “Any further news on Laini Carter?” he asked as I handed over the dogs on his doorstep.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I knew her.”

  “You did?”

  “She used to live here on the estate. In that double-story over there.” He pointed to a house on the far side of the park. “Then she moved out, and I couldn’t see her anymore.” He looked put out by the fact.

  “Oh, were the two of you dating?”

  “What? No! I wasn’t in her league.”

  “What was she like?” I asked.

  “She was beautiful,” he said simply. “Why don’t you come in and have a cup of coffee, and we can chat about her?”

  I glanced at my wristwatch. “I can’t, I have an appointment in town in fifteen minutes.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said. “Some other time.” And, humming, he let the dogs inside his house.

  – 10 –

  Officer Veronica Capshaw stood planted behind the front desk at the Pitchford police station like a solid oak, set to withstand any storms within its red brick walls. When I’d first met her up at the quarry, I’d been too upset and confused to notice much about her, but now I saw that she was in her late twenties, with black eyes, square hands, and a no-nonsense manner. On this March morning, she was dealing with a lady with tightly permed gray hair and the lemon-sucking expression of the perpetual complainer.

  “Why, I almost ran over one on Route 100 near the Brookford turnoff the other day after church! Wearing dark clothes and a blue helmet — well, that’s not very good for visibility, is it? Not a speck of reflective gear!” she said querulously. “My son’s a cyclist, but he always wears the correct apparel and he has flashing lights on his pedals. People need to be more careful and more aware.” She held up a fistful of flyers with the proselytizing fervor of a zealot.

  Noting my arrival, Officer Capshaw raised a hand to stem the woman’s babble. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she told me and then turned to the complainer. “I understand, Mrs. Posillico, but you will have to get permission from the town clerk’s office to stick those on lamp posts or in any other public place.”

  The woman’s face fell. Perhaps she already knew that Town Clerk Michelle Armstrong would never allow her town’s cutesy ye olde village vibe to be despoiled by homemade safety posters.

  “Can I stick one on your notice board, at least?” she asked.

  “You’re most welcome to, ma’am.”

  While the old lady rearranged the notices on the cluttered corkboard to make a space for her flyer, Capshaw beckoned me over.

  “Is Ryan in?” I asked. “Can I see him?”

  I was anxious to touch base with him — to find out how the investigation was going. If the investigation was going.

  “Chief Jackson is busy with other matters,” she replied.

  While I tried to figure out what this meant — whether Ryan wanted to avoid me after my crazy confidences, or whether I was overanalyzing a simple statement as psych students tend to do — she extracted two sheets from a manila folder on the countertop.

  “This is your statement about finding the body at the quarry, and this is the one about the bone,” she said. “Read them carefully. If they are correct in all respects, sign over here.”

  “Do you have a—?” I began, but she was already answering the phone.

  “Yes, sir, I’m listening. Uh-huh, uh huh … Outside the school?” She scribbled an address on a piece of paper. “Burning donuts? In a pile, or what?”

  She caught me tracking this fascinating conversation and tapped a finger on my statement. I moved a foot to the side and obediently began reading.

  “Well, what did he say when you confronted him?” Officer Capshaw asked the caller. “I see … Of course. Your name? … Contact number?” More scribbling. “I’ll get out there as soon as I can, sir.”

  She slid me a look which clearly conveyed that I was the person delaying her swift reaction to this emergency, and I returned my focus to the documents. They were concise, accurate and neatly typed; she’d even spelled my name correctly. Unsurprisingly, it made zero reference to any of the strange things I’d experienced. Had Ryan shared any of that with
her?

  She left the front desk, went down the short passageway that led to Ryan’s office, and I heard her telling him, “I need to head out to the school, Chief. I got a report that Zakary Weber is setting donuts alight in his food truck and tossing them into the street, as a protest against the elections.” There was an unintelligible reply, and then she replied, “Damned if I know.”

  I worried at a filament of skin beside my pinkie nail while I waited, wondering if I dared just march over to Ryan’s office.

  “I’ll let you know, boss,” I heard her say, and then she was back at the desk, attention on me. “Well? Is it all there?”

  “Yes, if you just want the facts.”

  “What else would we want?”

  Instantly I regretted saying anything, but she was looking at me like she wouldn’t budge until she had her answer.

  “Nothing, really. I just thought … maybe my thoughts or feelings? Hunches?”

  She gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You’re a shrink, right?”

  The term rankled a bit. I used it all the time, but it was like making Jewish jokes — you had to be one to tell them.

  “No, I’m not a psychologist, yet,” I said, emphasizing the correction.

  “Well, shrinks — oh, excuse me, psychologists — may be interested in feelings and hunches.” She said the two words like they were dirty. “But we cops deal in facts.”

  “Then these are one hundred percent factually correct,” I said, taking her pen and signing both statements. “Have there been any developments in the Laini Carter case?”

  She tilted her head and eyed me impassively, before saying, “We don’t generally make a habit of keeping witnesses updated on our investigations, Miss McGee.”

  “Right.”

  “If that’s all” — she placed a service bell and a sign reading ring for attention on the counter “— then I’ll escort you out.”

  Outside, she waited until I was driving away from the station before climbing into her police cruiser. Not very trusting, was Ronnie Capshaw. On the other hand, she was a good judge of human nature, because I merely circled the block, pulled back into the parking bay I’d just vacated and, glancing left and right to check Ronnie wasn’t hiding somewhere ready to pounce on me, snuck back into the station. I didn’t ring the bell before marching through the low swing-door beside the front desk, but I did knock on the door of the chief’s office before entering and plonking myself in the chair across the desk from Ryan.

  “Hey,” I greeted him. “How’s the Carter case going? Any leads?”

  “Hello, Garnet. Do take a seat. And how are you today?”

  That brought a wry grin to my face. “You’re determined to teach me some manners, aren’t you? Okay then, I’m very well, thank you. And how are you today?”

  “Peachy.”

  “So, any developments?”

  “Not really.”

  “I thought maybe the autopsy results would be through by now.”

  He made a sound like a shrug.

  “Are they?”

  He nodded grudgingly.

  “Well?” I demanded. “You know it’ll be in The Bugle anyway. Are you going to make me wait to read it?”

  He sighed. “The ME says the cause of death was massive trauma to the brain, presumably occurring at impact. And if that didn’t kill her, then the multiple devastating injuries throughout the rest of her body would have.”

  “And the manner of death?”

  “Undetermined. He says the injuries are consistent with either a fall or a jump. Which means it could be either an accident or suicide.”

  “Or homicide.”

  He shrugged an acknowledgement. “Are you hungry?”

  Was this a lunch invitation? “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re eating yourself.”

  He pointed to my mouth, where I’d been gnawing on a nail. Abashed, I put both my hands in my lap, interlinking the fingers and clenching them tightly to keep them from straying.

  “How do you think she died?” I asked.

  “Odds are, it’ll turn out to be suicide. Her boss says Laini Carter had some serious problems in her life.”

  “What does her brother say? Did you interview him yet? He’s in town, isn’t he?”

  “And how do you know that?”

  Discerning a hint of discomfort in his voice and expression, I said, “Don’t worry, it didn’t come to me in a vision.”

  Ryan’s face colored, and I knew I’d been correct in my assumption. He was not copacetic with what I’d told him on Sunday. That bothered me. And it bothered me that it bothered me, that I cared what this man thought of me.

  “Does Laini’s brother think it was suicide?” I pressed.

  “He’d better hope it was. Because if it’s murder, he’s the chief suspect,” Ryan said, and by his rueful expression, I figured that, in his embarrassment, he’d blurted out more than he intended to reveal.

  “Oooh!” I leaned forward in my chair, all ears. “Why’s that?”

  “Garnet, you’re a witness in this case, not an investigator.”

  “Yeah, your bouncer out there” — I jerked my chin toward the front desk — “told me that cops aren’t in the business of keeping witnesses updated on cases.”

  “Ronnie said that? She’s a tough cookie. Takes no shit from anyone.”

  Swinging from side to side in his swivel chair, he watched me plot my next move with an expectant expression just lifting one edge of his lips. His very nice lips.

  I pulled my gaze away from them and asked, “What about Laini’s phone — did you get anything off that?”

  “Even if I had any information on that — which I don’t, because it’s still with the techs who’re trying to extract the data — I wouldn’t tell you, because again, that’s police business.”

  I blew out a frustrated breath. “Ryan, you’re being very …” — I searched for the right word — “tiresome.”

  He gave a bark of laughter and ran a hand through his black hair but still said nothing. I wasn’t ready to give up on trying to prise something out of him, though.

  “Got anything back from forensics yet?”

  He didn’t reply, but I got my answer from the flit of his gaze to a couple of labeled evidence bags resting on his desk.

  “Are those hers?” I asked.

  He nodded, and before he could stop me, I grabbed the closest one.

  “Hey!” he protested.

  The clear plastic bag contained Laini Carter’s driver’s license, and although the card was smudged with sooty powder, I could still make out the details.

  “Can I try touching it?” I asked hesitantly.

  “I’m amazed you’re asking permission,” Ryan said sarcastically.

  “Please?”

  Looking ill-at-ease, he began, “Garnet —”

  “It can’t hurt, right? I mean, it’s already been fingerprinted and stuff, hasn’t it?”

  He didn’t exactly give me the go-ahead, but he didn’t demand the bag back either. I opened the zip lock an inch, glanced at him, then opened it all the way. Still he said nothing. I tipped the card out of the bag and into my left hand and then held it between both my palms.

  Ryan sat very still, eyes fixed on me. “Anything?”

  “Not really.” A slight tightening in my head, perhaps. A faint frisson of something — Excitement? Turmoil? — that was over almost before it began. Disappointed, I peeked at the other bags, trying to make out what was inside them. “Maybe it needs to be something more personal?”

  Ryan scrubbed his hand across his mouth and held it there a moment, as if holding back words. Then, seeming to come to a decision, he passed another of the bags to me. Inside was a necklace in rose gold with a pendant in the shape of a wagon wheel, or perhaps it was a daisy with its petals cut out, inside an outer circle studded with bright diamonds.

  “Was this hers? Was she wearing it when she died?” I asked.

  “You tell me.”
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  I opened the bag and spilled the necklace into my hand. Again, I felt that rippling of alertness, like an awakening to the object in my hand, a sudden electric awareness of it, and the top of my head grew tight. But I got nothing more.

  I met Ryan’s curious gaze and shrugged. “Maybe I need to concentrate?”

  He held up his hands in a don’t-ask-me gesture.

  I shut my eyes, closed my hand around the necklace, and tried to send my attention to the cool metal, focusing hard as though listening with an inner ear for the slightest silent sound. It took a moment, and then it began.

  – 11 –

  Inside my closed hand, the chain and pendant pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of a living thing. My whole body responded — tensing, pulling into itself. Behind my closed lids, my vision went bright, then images began to flicker.

  Two people — a tall woman in cycling gear, her long black hair swept up into a tight ponytail, and a broad-shouldered man with brown hair graying at the temples. He holds out a blue velvet jewelry box to her, opens the lid so she can see inside.

  She gasps in delight. “It’s lovely! Thank you, thank you,” she says, planting quick kisses all over the man’s face.

  “Put it on,” he urges. “I want to see you wearing my gift.”

  “I may never take it off. The charm brings good luck, you know.” She hands it to him and spins around, offering him the back of her neck.

  He loops it across the front of her throat and fiddles with the clasp. Leaning in close to the nape of her neck, as if to see better, he inhales deeply. His expression is one of hunger and longing and grim satisfaction.

  She dances over to a full-length mirror on the wall and studies herself from several angles. “It’s gorgeous, Carl! You really shouldn’t have.”

  “I knew you wanted one.”

  “Just a little silver one would have been fine. This must have cost a fortune. Did you get it specially made for me?”

  “I wanted it to be unique, as exceptional as you are.” He smiles as he sighs. “I just wish you’d let me put a ring on your finger instead of a chain around your neck.”

  Her face falls. “Oh, don’t start that again.”

  “I want you to be my wife,” he says, meeting her gaze in the mirror.