Empty Shell

by Ashley Fontainne

  Sheltered in a cocoon of weightlessness, I floated. Time didn’t exist nor did I have any sensation of the passage of it. The sound of organ music began to play haunting chords, stirring memories of my Meemaw’s funeral.

  My mother weeping at the open casket, her hair disheveled from her wracking grief. My stoic Papa holding her as she wept for her mother, while he kept his own tears locked inside his heart. Me, a terrified six-year-old with my head buried behind my dad’s arm, unwilling and unable to watch my mother and Papa in such pain. The pastor’s words that I didn’t understand the meaning behind, though everyone else in the pews nodded their heads in agreement, punctuated with an occasional “Amen” or “Praise Jesus”.

  The dark casket, the shiny metal handles glistening in the sun as it was lowered into the ground by faceless men. No more organ music now, only the off-key voices of the graveside mourners as the final goodbyes to Ethel Mae House were sung under a green tent at the cemetery. The endless parade of people who walked past our plastic chairs lined up in front of the gaping hole in the ground. Their hushed murmurs of sympathy.

  All gone now, silence. No music, no voices, no crying. I stood at the edge of the grave and stared down at the freshly packed dirt and the wilted flowers that rested atop of the mound, their scent no longer fresh. Meemaw was gone, buried under piles of filthy soil, locked away, unmoving, from my grasp. My heart ached for her to comb my hair one more time. Just one more pie baked together. One more laughter-filled day on her front porch shelling peas. My soul cried out for one more hug and gentle kiss from her sweet lips. I felt the hot tears cascade down my face and watch them form a puddle of mud at my feet. I hear myself cry, “Meemaw, I miss you. I need you.”

  “Then come to me, child. Come, come down here. You can rest with me. No one will bother you down here. All the pain will end,” whispered Meemaw’s voice, but it was all wrong. Brooding. Heavy. Gravelly.

  Icy fear raced through me, but I was unable to move away from her final resting place. The ground quivered and my eyes watched in frozen horror as the dirt began to separate. Gnarled, bony fingers protruded, beckoning me. Light glinted off the wedding ring that I recognize as the one Meemaw wore.

  “No! No! No!” I screamed.

  “Ms. Dickinson, it’s okay. Shhh. Breathe. In. Out. That’s it. Now, sit still and give yourself a chance to fully wake up before you try to move.”

  A raging headache throbbed in my temples. The horrific visions from my dream still clung to me and I felt a shudder of fear amble down my back. God, I hadn’t had a nightmare about my Meemaw in years. The last round of troubling sleep had been three years ago, when the genetic counselor told us that there was nothing more we could do and that it was time to consider other options to become parents.

  Wait until I tell Jack about this dream! This one was the most frightening yet. I could smell the decay. Oh, Jesus. Maybe Jack will be able to help me figure out why…wait? Was that Sarah talking to me? How? I’m still at home in bed…

  I blinked twice and shook the dream-spun cobwebs from my head. Sure enough, Sarah was leaning over me, her hand holding something wet and cold—a washcloth?—to my forehead. Everything looked out of place, skewed. I realized that was because of my viewpoint. I was looking up from the floor, the surroundings all wrong.

  “Sarah, what…what happened? What are you doing at my house?”

  “Ms. Dickinson, you fainted in Mr. Stanek’s office a few minutes ago,” Sarah said. She was trying to keep her voice lighthearted, but it wasn’t working.

  Full clarity hit me hard. I flicked Sarah’s hand away and scrambled to my feet. On wobbly legs, I spun around, searching. My conversation with Roger slammed into my head, the enormity of the situation just beginning to take shape.

  “Where’s Roger? I need…I need to talk to him. And my phone. Sarah, please help me find my phone.”

  “Ms. Dickinson, please, sit back down. Here,” Sarah said, reaching out her cool fingers. She grabbed my elbow and tried to guide me to the chair in front of Roger’s desk. I jerked away from her, spotting my cell phone. I snatched it up and headed for the door.

  “Where’s Roger?” I asked again.

  Sarah didn’t have to answer. Roger burst through the door at that very moment and motioned for Sarah to exit. “Thanks Sarah. Please go to the kitchen. They are ready for your statement.”

  Sarah scurried away without another glance in my direction. Roger was in full legal mode, his words clipped and tone forceful. He slid the lock into place on the door and ambled over to his desk. “Melody, please sit. We have a lot to discuss in a very short time. I can’t have you fainting again.”

  I was too overwhelmed to argue.

  “Listen closely and do exactly as I say. Can you do that?”

  A nod of my head was all I could muster.

  “Good. First off, your husband has been arrested and will most likely be formally charged with Serena’s murder. I told him not to say a word and wait until legal counsel arrives. He asked me to represent him but, as you and I both know, I cannot. Don’t worry though, I’ve called Bertrand LaFont. He’s on his way to the P.D. right now.”

  Bertrand LaFont was the only other criminal defense attorney in the state who could be considered an equal to Roger. He took on the cases Roger refused to touch for personal, moral reasons. Big, high profile cases of the worst of the worst, the dregs of society accused of committing horrible atrocities that were so vile, even a horror writer wouldn’t touch them. If Roger had called Bertrand in, then things were bad. Really bad. Worst case scenario bad. Numbed from shock, I tried to concentrate on Roger’s voice and not slip away into the dark recesses of my mind.

  “Secondly, a CSI team is at your house right now. It will be hours, if not an entire day, that they are there, which means you can’t go home.”

  Poor Simba. She hated strangers, especially men. She would be petrified of the intrusion of so many people inside her domain. She’d probably messed herself. Worry for her safety allowed me to find my voice. “My dog. I…I need to get Simba.”

  Roger’s eyes softened, the creases along his brow easing. “Your dog is fine, Melody. Jack put her out back before he opened the door. And I spoke with the lead investigator. He agreed to let a family member or friend retrieve the dog. So you will need to call someone to do so.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “Melody. You aren’t thinking straight, which is understandable. If you show up there, you will be the next one to be interrogated. Detective Knowles is leading this investigation and you know how gruff he is. You think you could handle that right now?”

  My throat clenched shut and I tightened my grip on my cell phone at the mention of Detective Knowles. To say he was intimidating was an understatement. Over the years we had dealt with him on numerous cases where he was the lead detective. Several times I had accompanied Roger to court and watched the two strong-willed men butt heads. Roger was a beast when cross-examining someone and could usually find a chink in the armor of the witness, but he never had any luck cracking Detective Knowles on the stand.

  A shudder of fear at being on the other side of the investigative table from him hit me. On a good day he would intimidate me. Today, he would annihilate me.

  “No,” I croaked from my parched lips.

  “This leads me up to the third point. You can’t go home for a few days. The investigators who are out there searching through Serena’s workstation aren’t aware you’re back here. I plan on keeping it that way. You need to lay low for a few days. Have a private breakdown, then gather your wits back. I can stall Knowles for three or four days, but eventually, you will be called in for questioning. I’ve already spoken with Kent Hall and he has agreed to represent you when, and if, the time comes.”

  The flip flops my stomach was doing caused me to let go of my cell phone and grip the arms of the chair for support. This isn’t happening. Please God, let me wake up.

  “The press is go
ing to be relentless. No one, and I do mean no one, from crib mates at the day care center you attended to the guy who served you coffee last week at Yo Mama’s Café, will be immune. Every person you and Jack had any contact with has the potential to be approached for a blurb. Do not answer your phone unless I call you. Same goes for your email. Don’t even open it. I will only contact you by phone, so don’t be tricked into responding to an email purportedly from me…”

  Time passes like cold molasses on a winter’s day. A phrase my Meemaw used to always say that often made me smile. It certainly wasn’t going to elicit any happy thoughts today. It was doubtful a smile would cross my lips any time soon, if ever again.

  Roger’s voice droned on and on, full of depressing instructions and strict advice. Unable to comprehend everything, I nodded at what I thought were appropriate times. Bits and pieces of his long list of do’s and don’ts broke through my stupor. Don’t watch or read any news. Don’t stay with family or friends. Do not attempt to contact Jack in any way. Take a vacation and stay away from work for at least a week, if not more.

  I had no idea how I was supposed to remember all of it. The paralegal in me was screaming, “Take notes, idiot!” but I couldn’t seem to get my fingers to let go of their death grip on the chair arms.

  Roger or Sarah must have turned my phone over to silent while I was splayed out on the floor. I realized it had been vibrating in my lap for the past ten minutes. Already, the fracas had begun. Little Rock may be the capital city, but the reality was that it was a big, small town. News spread faster than a wildfire in the desert. I couldn’t count the times we had worked on a case that had caught the eye of the media and marveled at how the rumor mill swept through like a plague. And this case would top them all. Philip Rowland’s bank account was only matched in numbers by the amount of people who hated him. The news of the death of his only daughter would be the headliner on every news station for weeks.

  Dear God…

  The walls were closing in, the sensation of stifling pressure crushing down on my chest. Where was I supposed to go if Roger didn’t want me to stay with my family or my friends? I needed them right now! How in the world could I even attempt to function without their support? Not to mention the fact that the joint bank account with Jack was running on fumes. I mailed the last check in for the remodel last Monday, which meant I couldn’t afford to even stay at a cheap motel.

  How was I going to tell my family? I thanked God silently that Jack’s parents were no longer living and I didn’t have the task of making that phone call. The news that their only son was an adulterer and murder suspect would have killed them. Especially his father. A fire-and-brimstone pastor if ever there was one.

  The only who could ever reach me, was the son of a preacher man…

  “Melody, did you hear me?”

  “Um, yes?”

  Roger let out a sigh as he walked over and sat down next to me. “I can only imagine what is running through your mind right now, Melody. But please, try to focus on what I’m saying. Listen, you haven’t used all your vacation in a few years, so you have plenty built up. I am officially informing you that you are taking it, no objections. We need to get you out of here before they figure out you arrived at work. Do you…do you have somewhere to go? Can you drive?”

  Though I tried to fight them, hot tears spilled out and flowed down my face, dripping onto Roger’s hand as he gently clasped mine. I shook my head.

  With a reassuring pat, Roger stood up, reached across his desk and grabbed his briefcase. “Pull yourself together. Here,” he said, handing me a set of keys. “These are to my cabin. You remember how to get there, right? You and Jack…” Roger stopped himself before he continued his thought.

  The tears fell faster as I reached out and took the keys. Yes, I remembered. The lovely little cabin that overlooked the Caddo River. Jack and I spent our last two wedding anniversaries there, compliments of my boss. My stubborn, never-show-your-emotions boss, who was now looking at me with overwhelming pity on his face. This was beyond bad. It was, in a word, catastrophic.

  Roger reached down and picked up my phone from my lap. “One last thing. Whom shall I call to come pick you up?”

  I thought about my Mom, but quashed the idea. She was not due back from her trip to Hot Springs until later today, and she was too old to handle this much drama, let alone be able to drive the fifty miles. Kendal, Jack’s best friend, was an option, but I dismissed the idea. He was down south somewhere on a jobsite, at least that’s what I seemed to remember Jack saying. The thought of telling either of them about not only Jack’s infidelity but this latest bombshell made my chest hurt. Only one solid option came to my depleted mind.

  “Regina,” I squeaked.

  Within seconds, Roger found her number and was on the phone, barking orders at my best friend. I sat in silence, near comatose, as everything I knew lay in broken pieces all around me. The shattered remnants of what had been a pretty idyllic life were piled high, close to burying me in the rubble. I had no idea where to start the cleanup process so I could breathe again.

  “Good. Ten minutes? Fantastic. I’ll inform the receptionist to bring you straight back. Don’t tell her your name, just that you have an appointment with me. Uh huh, yes. Great idea. Melody will be pleased. See you shortly.”

  Roger disconnected the call and handed me back my phone. I glanced down and winced at the numerous missed calls and text messages. The majority were from my mother. I stood up and moved toward Roger’s private bathroom.

  “Excuse me, but I need to use the restroom and call my mother. I’m sure she is beside herself.”

  Roger nodded. “Understandable. Remember not to tell her where you are going, only that you will be someplace safe. Might want to warn her about the media, too. Perhaps encourage her to take an impromptu vacation.”

  I closed the bathroom door and stared at my phone. It took a good three minutes before I found the courage to dial her number. Once we spoke about this, it would solidify in my mind. Become real. Right now, I clung to the hope that I was dreaming. But I knew once I heard her sweet voice on the other end, everything would change.

  Forever.

  CHAPTER FIVE - WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  Philip Rowland sat with his back erect against the hard pew, his meaty arm resting across the petite shoulders of his destroyed wife. Her unrelenting sobs of anguish filled the church sanctuary, drowning out the words of the priest as he tried to finish Serena’s service. Philip winced inside, kicking himself for not insisting that Miriam take the Valium the doctor had prescribed for her. When he suggested it as they dressed for their daughter’s funeral earlier, Miriam had flown into a rage, screaming that she refused to be drugged out of her gourd, unable to release her grief at the loss of her only child.

  He ignored the vapid words of the priest, like he always did whenever Miriam or Serena cajoled him into attending services. All the ridiculous pomp and circumstance, the comical attire of the clergy, the incessant rehashing of the same old subjects, made Philip want to pull what little hair he had on his head out. The hollow words about a loving God and an afterlife of joy and peace were laughable at best, and something Philip didn’t buy in to. Sins and morality did not mesh well with the way Philip conducted his life outside of his family. He hadn’t become a multi-millionaire before thirty-five by following some ancient rules about ethics.

  But, his wife and daughter were his Kryptonite and saying no to either of them wasn’t something he was adept at, so he attended at their insistence. After all, it helped his standing in the community to be seen as a churchgoer tossing large chunks of cash in the collection plate every now and then, plus it appeased his two favorite girls.

  No longer listening to the priest, Philip’s mind wandered over to the morning’s confrontation with Miriam.

  “You will not deny me my grief, Phil. My baby girl is dead! Beaten and murdered by some low-life professor twice her age! It’s your fault. Y
ou should’ve put your foot down and insisted she continue to work for you. But noooo. ‘Let her explore, Miriam. Let her learn about the real world. Let her taste life on the other side. I guarantee you she’ll be running back in six months when she gets a good taste of it’, you said! Now, less than a year later, our child is dead. Dead! Don’t you realize what you’ve done?”

  Philip stood in the middle of their bedroom and watched in silence as Miriam tore through her closet, flinging expensive clothes across the room. With each word ripped from her broken heart, her pitch rose, her intensity level peaked. Philip didn’t attempt to stop her tirade. Part of the reason he didn’t was that he hoped her fit would release some of the pressure inside her before the funeral. He also felt like he deserved to bear the brunt of her anger, and though he would never admit it to anyone, he agreed with what Miriam said. It was his fault for not corralling his headstrong daughter sooner.

  But the biggest reason that Philip remained quiet and let his wife rip him to shreds was the plan. A plan that had begun to form the minute he received the phone call Sunday morning informing him Serena had been murdered. He kept his temper at bay by shoving the raging anger deep inside of him and focused his attention on Miriam. And the investigation. He fought every urge of applying the same tactics he used in the business world—ruthlessness and intimidation—and instead convincingly played the part of an overwrought parent. He didn’t call upon any of the numerous favors that various higher ups on the police force owed him. He didn’t bully his way inside the investigation to keep abreast of every piece of discovered evidence. When new information became available, those on the inside indebted to him were either too scared not to tell him or enjoyed being the bearer of such tragic news, for Philip was kept abreast of any new developments without asking.