Ghost Light

by Hautala, Rick

  Murder!

  Like so many other couples married better than ten years, she and Harry had been gradually drifting away from each other. They were getting so involved with their own lives and so stuck in their own patterns that they were losing touch with each other and whatever they used to share. Some day—maybe in the not-too-distant future—they would both realize just how much they had become strangers to each other. Perhaps then they would even split…

  Stop it! Jesus Christ, stop thinking like that! Cindy told herself.

  She shifted her hand onto Harry’s again and clung to it tightly, desperately seeking the strength she knew she didn’t have right now.

  Please… please stop thinking like that!

  But then her gaze shifted from the floor to the coffin at the front of the room. Her sister’s immobile face didn’t look at all real. This couldn’t really be her, she thought. It’s a shell, a wax figure made to look like her. This is all a bad dream, and I’m gonna wake up soon. The real Debbie—the sister I loved more than anyone else in the world, is someplace else.

  And Cindy found herself grateful that, wherever the hell she thought Debbie was, at least she was no longer being brutalized by that son of a bitch Alex. No more “accidents!

  Murder!

  That single word rang in her mind like steel striking steel, sending sparks flying.

  Was she crazy to be thinking like this?

  Was she paranoid about Alex simply because she had never liked him, never trusted him? Was she unfairly focusing all of her misery and grief onto Alex because Debbie had confided in her that—yes, at times, usually when he’d been drinking, he slapped her around some?

  Slapped her around some?

  Jesus, more than once Cindy had seen the bruises on Debbie’s arms and back, and Lord knows they had talked often, especially over the past few months, about how Debbie had to get herself and the kids away from Alex before something terrible happened. Last summer, Cindy had been the one who had driven Debbje to the hospital when she had broken her arm. She had fallen off a chair while trying to hang a curtain, Alex had told the emergency room nurse, when he’d showed up later. Even then, Cindy had known better. No one goes about hanging curtains at ten o’clock at night!

  Fallen off a chair! An accident!

  —Murder!

  Just like what happened three nights ago!

  Cindy was certain that this was the lame excuse of a wife beater who, stuck for an alibi, had resorted to the same one he had used the last time he had seriously injured his wife. Wasn’t it obvious from the autopsy that Debbie had been repeatedly abused? Weren’t there traces of other untreated fractures, or unhealed bruises and scars, or signs of head injuries? Couldn’t they see? Wasn’t there any evidence of how bad it had been for Debbie during the last few years of her life?

  But that was the problem: other than her dead sister’s say so, Cindy didn’t have any solid evidence. And that’s why, in spite of her growing suspicions, she had said nothing to the police, at least not yet. She figured the situation must look suspicious enough to warrant them to begin their own investigation into the matter. They didn’t need her telling them what to do.

  Or were the cops too busy with “real” crimes in the city to give this “accident” the necessary time and attention it deserved? Maybe she should report her suspicions to the police and let them take it from there. Wasn’t that the right thing to do? If she could somehow speak from beyond the grave, wouldn’t that be what Debbie would want?

  No, Cindy thought, she wasn’t about to start blurting out unsupported accusations, and then have Alex turn his anger against her! But then again, now that his wife was dead, who would he turn his anger against?

  Oh, Jesus, the kids?

  “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Cindy whispered, shaking her head from side to side as fresh tears spilled from her eyes. She clung even more tightly to Harry’s hand, wishing to God that it felt firmer, more solid in her grasp. She glanced again at Billy and Krissy, wondering how best to help them through this ordeal and give them the emotional support to—somehow—carry on their lives without their mother. She wished to heaven she could protect them, and her heart ached with worry for their safety, a worry that her dead sister had expressed to her so many times before… a worry so deep that Debbie had planned to leave with her children that very night of her accident.

  —Murder!

  Although she knew there wasn’t a shred of evidence that would stand up in court, Cindy was positive that Alex had beat Debbie to death and then set it up to look like an accident. It was murder, no matter what the police or anyone else said! Debbie had been afraid for her safety, for her life; otherwise, why would she have packed their suitcases and been ready to—

  Oh, shit! … Oh, shit!… That’s it!

  A cold, prickly tightening gripped her stomach. She let out a low moan and leaned forward, almost falling out of her chair. The minister droned on, ignoring the minor disruption, and Cindy hoped that anyone who might see what was going on would think she was overcome with grief, but she gave that almost no consideration as her vision blacked out for a frozen, scary moment and the thought exploded in her mind.

  Debbie had suitcases packed and was ready to go!

  “That’s it,” she whispered, turning toward Harry when she sensed that he was leaning over her, trying to comfort her. She felt a warm pressure on her back as he patted her, and he whispered something in her ear, but none of it made any sense; his voice was nothing but a high, winding cicada-like buzz.

  “Oh, Jesus, Harry! That’s it! That’s it!” she whispered through her teeth as though in great pain. She tried to keep her voice low and steady, but she was afraid that every person in the room had seen her double over and was now craning forward, trying to hear what she had to say.

  “The suitcases!”

  “What—?” Harry said.

  “She had suitcases… packed… ready to go!”

  Cindy knew that she wasn’t moving, but she still felt as though she was falling forward in a long, slow tumbling roll. Harry—or someone—was tugging on her arm, trying to get her to sit up straight in her chair, but she couldn’t tell which direction was up. The room was a crazy, spinning smear of colors, sounds, and smells. For a moment, she imagined that she was sitting—no, she was lying down—no, she was rolling over and over in a field of flowers. The heavy-scented air and the hammering heat of the sun were pressing her down, squashing her, strangling her. Her throat felt as if it were coated with thick, yellow pollen that was congealing into thick clots that eventually—soon!-would seal off her lungs.

  Suitcases!

  The single word pulsated in her mind like a strobe light.

  Suitcases… suitcases… suitcases…

  She had no idea if she was repeating the word out loud or not. There was absolutely no feeling in her body, and what was left of her mind was swirling like sand in a hot wind. A solid, pulsating darkness had begun to nibble at the edges of her awareness, and it grew stronger with each repetition of the word.

  Suitcases… suitcases… suitcases…

  And then, with a hollow concussion that sounded like a cannon going off inside her head, the light winked out, and the darkness dragged her down… all the way down.

  2

  That son of a bitch couldn’t even bother to show up just to be here for me!

  Cindy arrived at Roy Krendall’s law office, Alex’s and Debbie’s lawyer, precisely at two o’clock for the reading of her sister’s will. She was right on time and was disappointed to be informed by Roy’s secretary that the lawyer had been delayed in court and would be along in ten or fifteen minutes.

  Cindy took a deep breath as she seated herself on the couch in the alcove opposite the secretary’s desk. She dreaded the thought that Alex might show up on time and that they would have to wait here in this small room together. There was no way she wanted even to see him—her sister’s murderer!—much less try to make small talk with him. Over the past week, sh
e’d been seething with rage. More times than she could count, Cindy had found herself fantasizing about actually maiming or killing that man. Her sister’s murderer.

  Cindy knew that Debbie had drawn up her own will; in fact, she had done it at Cindy’s insistence several months ago, following a nasty argument with Alex that had left Debbie with several bruises on her arms and back. Cindy didn’t know the contents of the will. She had been content knowing her sister had done something to protect herself, but she couldn’t help but wonder if its existence was a surprise to Alex and how he would react to its contents.

  Cindy’s mind turned to her own husband. He hadn’t even come to the lawyer’s office with her. He’d claimed he was short-handed at the hardware store and would have to stay there all afternoon to cover the register.

  But damn him! The least he could’ve done was take an hour off to meet me here… just to help me get through this!

  It had been a week since her sister’s funeral, and Cindy still wasn’t coping very well. Sleepless nights and long days, dragging herself through work at the bank had started to take their toll. She wasn’t eating right, either, and was losing weight. For days now, her eyes had been burning and bloodshot, no matter how much Visine she used. So many times she’d be sure that she had cried herself out, but then another wave of sadness and the numbed hollowness of her loss would hit her again, and the tears would start to flow. It was terrible when that happened at work, when she was dealing with a customer.

  She kept telling herself that getting over something like this was going to take a longtime. Her parents had died more than three years ago, and still—whenever she thought about them—she would feel a deep pang of loss, an emptiness in her life that she could never fill. She knew that, from now on, maybe for the rest of her life, it would be this way with Debbie, too; but in Debbie’s case it was much worse because of the circumstances surrounding her death. In the week following the funeral, the police still had given no indication that they suspected foul play or were doing anything to find out what had really happened that night.

  So what the hell was the matter with the police? Cindy wondered.

  Were they simply ignoring what had happened, sweeping it under the rug just to be rid of it? Was it some unspoken rule that men didn’t arrest other men—at least other white men—for beating their wives to death? Was this some crazy male, sexist, racist thing?

  Or if they did suspect the truth, did they intend not to pursue it, concluding that Debbie—like most battered women—had somehow deserved or asked for what happened to her? Were they blaming the victim?

  If the police were suspicious, maybe they were laying low, not wanting to let on that they were still actively investigating the possibility that Debbie had been murdered.

  Maybe they were letting Alex think he’d gotten away with it, so they wouldn’t scare him off.

  At least for now, as far as Cindy could see, Alex was putting up one hell of a good front. He was playing the grieving husband and sympathetic father roles to the hilt. Several mutual acquaintances had mentioned to Cindy how Alex seemed to be trying so hard to pull his life back together, if only for the sake of his motherless children. God, it was like he’d become some kind of martyr for what he was going through, and no one seemed to realize how abusive he had been to Debbie!

  Or maybe… just maybe, Cindy thought, she was wrong about the whole thing! Maybe Alex was telling the truth. Maybe Debbie had exaggerated the problems between them, or maybe she was more at fault than Cindy was willing to admit or see. Maybe she really had died tragically in a stupid, careless accident.

  That thought often crossed Cindy’s mind, but whenever it did, she would quickly dismiss it.

  Day and night, Cindy found herself wishing she had the courage to talk about her suspicions to the police. Night after sleepless night, lying in the darkness of her bedroom, she went through it all with Harry, over and over again. As much as he tried to be supportive, he also tried to dismiss her suspicions by getting her to admit that she had never liked or trusted Alex, and that she was probably laying too much of her anger and grief onto him. She had to blame someone for her loss, he told her; and besides, it would come down to her word against Alex’s. While some neighbors might say they heard them arguing from time to time—what married couple didn’t have shouting matches now and again? Then there was the fact that Cindy hadn’t said anything right after the accident—

  No, murder!

  How far could Cindy really expect to get without any solid evidence?

  One thing Cindy had to admit that she had never liked about Alex was how smooth and calculating he could be. He had an oily charm, a superficiality about him that she absolutely hated! If he had, in fact, killed his wife, then he must have framed an air-tight alibi and covered his tracks perfectly.

  Perfectly… except for the suitcases!

  That thought spun like a whirligig in Cindy’s mind day and night. Debbie had three packed suitcases up in the bedroom, one for her and one for each of the kids.

  She had told Cindy just that afternoon that she was going to do it—that she was going to leave Alex; so if she had said something to him, or if he had caught her while she was trying to get out of the house, he might have lost his temper and hit her—hit her hard! Cindy knew just how bad Alex’s temper was because he had turned it on her more than once. She knew how much he resented how close she and Debbie were. She tried like hell not to, but she could easily imagine Alex losing control and beating Debbie senseless, and then setting things up in the kitchen to look as though she had fallen and hit her head. Why the hell else would she have packed three suitcases unless she was planning to get the hell out of there?

  The heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs suddenly drew her attention. She clenched her fists and held her breath as she stared at the office door, watching, waiting for the doorknob to turn.

  Oh, Christ! If it’s Alex, I’ll just die! I swear to God I will!

  The doorknob turned, and the door swung slowly open. For a terrifying moment, a dark shape filled the doorway as someone—a man—walked into the office.

  “Sorry I’m late. Got tied up in traffic,” he said, breathing heavily as he placed a heavy-looking briefcase onto the coffee table. His clothes were rumpled from the humidity outside. His tie was askew, and his shoes were in desperate need of some polish. Strands of thinning, white hair flapped like a limp bird’s wing over the shiny dome of his balding head.

  “You must be Cynthia Toland,” the man said, stepping forward and extending his hand as Cindy stood up. They shook hands. Cindy was a bit taken aback by the clammy feel of his hand and the sour smell of his breath.

  “I’m Roy Krendall. Awfully sorry about what happened to your sister. A terrible tragedy.”

  It was murder! Cindy thought and almost said.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” Krendall said. “Just let me check for any messages and get some papers from my office. I’ll be right along. Please—” He walked to the closed door beside his secretary’s desk, opened it, and waved Cindy inside. “We’ll be meeting in my office. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Mr. Harris isn’t here yet, is he?”

  Biting her lower lip, Cindy shook her head quickly.

  “Have any idea if he plans to show up?”

  Cindy tried to speak but couldn’t, and ended up simply shrugging. Her legs felt as brittle as match sticks that would break at any moment as she walked slowly into the room and took a seat in one of the two plush chairs angled in front of the wide, mahogany desk. The leather cushion of the chair whooshed as she sat down. She glanced quickly at the book cases, all packed tightly with law tomes and magazines, then twisted around so she could keep an eye on the door. She shuddered at the thought that Alex might enter the room and come up behind her without her knowing it. She sat there for several minutes, silently wringing her hands until Krendall reappeared, still looking wilted and harried as he slid his briefcase onto the desk and sat down heavily.

>   “Well, I certainly hope your brother-in-law plans to be here soon,” Krendall said, stretching out his arm and glancing at his wristwatch. “This will affect him as much as it does you.”

  Burning with curiosity, Cindy almost asked if he could read it to her now so she could leave before Alex arrived, but the question died in her throat when the outside office door opened, and the secretary’s voice directed someone into the adjoining office.

  “Ah, here he is now,” Krendall said, standing up and going to the door to greet Alex.

  Cindy’s eyes narrowed to slits as she watched Alex shake hands with the lawyer, who expressed his sorrow at his loss. Then, moving slowly with his head slightly bowed, Alex took the chair opposite her. Tears stung her eyes, but she forced herself not to let them fall. Alex made fleeting eye contact with her and smiled tightly—more of a grimace, really; then he looked away, staring down at the floor with a pitiful, down-cast expression on his face. Once the minimal amenities were dispensed with, Krendall opened his briefcase and took out a thin, manila file folder.

  “We—uh, well, the reading of this will won’t take long,” Krendall said, slapping it against the flat of his hand, “but it’s going to present some… some rather unusual problems—problems which I’ve never encountered in better than thirty years of practicing law.” He paused and cleared his throat as he flipped the edge of the folder. Cindy covered her mouth with one hand to help control the sobs that jerked her body. Krendall opened the folder, cleared his throat, and began to read.

  “I, Deborah Toland Harris, being of sound mind and body, do hereby present this, my last will and testament—”

  Krendall droned on, reading the convoluted legal language that barely made sense to Cindy until he came to one part of the will, which he read in a slow, deliberate voice.

  “In the event of my death, pre-deceasing my husband, Alexander Harris, I do here-by appoint my sister, Mrs. Cynthia Toland, as legal guardian of my children, William Alan and Christine Anne, with all legal rights pertaining to their custody until such time as—”