I kiss her cheek. “You should call the doctor this morning. See if he can get you in sometime this week.”
She sighs again, revealing how deeply tired she is. What little sleep she’s getting isn’t enough. “I will.”
I know Colleen doesn’t want to hear it, but Joanna was exhausted at this stage too. She suffered from morning sickness from the moment she found out about the pregnancy—at about week four—until the time she moved into the second master at about week ten. Throughout that period, she was miserable. She went to the doctor in the middle of May, and he must’ve prescribed her something to help. After that, her spirits lifted considerably.
Two months later, she left.
I can’t think about the baby, not without feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut. The only things I’d ever wanted were to be a successful businessman, a loving husband, and a better father than the absent one I had.
I was going to have it all.
But that was before…
“I wish today were Saturday,” Colleen whispers, turning to me. “So we could be alone. It would be nice not to have Dean and Samara hovering over us.”
This is the first negative mention of the staff I’ve ever heard. Shocked, I pull back. “I thought you liked having Dean around to cook for us. And Samara is a lifesaver. Don’t they take some pressure off?”
“I do. They do.” She pauses mid-breath, as if she’s trying to decide what’s really on her mind. “But I think—I’m not sure Dean likes me, that’s all. It’s like he’s always watching me, waiting for me to mess up.”
From the kitchen, pots and pans shift in the sink. I don’t get the feeling Dean’s listening—never have—but I suppose if he’s making Colleen uncomfortable, that’s something I should take into consideration.
“How could you possibly mess up?” I ask, kissing her again.
She shrugs, and leans into me. “I don’t know. It’s like he’s comparing me. To Joanna.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. He just needs to get used to you and the way you do things.”
It was this way with Joanna too. Soon after we moved to Ravenwood, Joanna suggested we staff the place—it was too large for her to keep up on her own, she pointed out. Dean came highly recommended by an old colleague, so I hired him on the spot. He worked in sullen silence for months until he finally warmed up to her, and then they became great friends. For a while, though I hate to admit it, I was jealous of their connection. Especially near the end, I suspected they were having an affair. I never discovered whom she was having an affair with. Honestly, it could’ve been anyone. I would much rather Colleen’s feelings toward Dean be wary and cold than loving, the way Joanna’s were.
But I’m done thinking about Joanna.
Behind us, Dean starts singing, but I can’t make out the song.
“Do you want to get out of here today?” I ask, weaving my fingers through hers and drawing her hand to my lips.
She glances up at me, hopeful. “Really?”
“You haven’t been to Half Moon Bay yet. There are all kinds of stores downtown.” Although I hate shopping, I’d do anything to see her face light up the way it is now. “We could pick up something for the baby’s room and then grab lunch at the distillery after. There’s even a bookstore you might like. Getting out of Ravenwood for a few hours might do us both some good.”
Her eyes glisten as if she’s tearing up. “Michael, I would—That’d be—I’d love that, but about the baby’s room, I—”
I squeeze her against me, cutting her protest short. “Go get ready.”
“But…”
I shush her with a kiss. “We can talk on the way.”
She smiles meekly and heads upstairs.
She really is the brightest part of my day, and has been from the first moment she came into my office for her interview. As awful as it sounds, I don’t notice everyone who walks in and out of my building. But from the moment I saw Colleen that hot afternoon in late July, she caught my eye—and not just because she was trapped between the elevator doors as they clamped shut. It was her laugh that really got me. She sounded carefree and lighthearted, reminding me of a time when things weren’t so serious, so stressful.
She hasn’t smiled the way she used to for a while now. Maybe today I can change that.
I head into the kitchen and rummage through the fridge for a yogurt when someone rings the doorbell.
“Want me to get that?” Dean asks, but I wave him off.
A black sedan is parked at the curb, and two men are standing on the opposite side of the threshold. One’s in a suit, the other in slacks and a polo shirt. They look…official.
“Mr. Harris?” the taller one asks. “I’m Detective Patel. And this is Detective Shaw.” They show identification from the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office. “Okay if we come in and talk to you for a minute?”
Patel’s tone makes me nervous—the last time I’d been questioned by the police was my final night with Joanna, and I hadn’t been in my right mind.
“Of course, come in.” My voice booms, sounding too enthusiastic.
They stand in the center of the living room, scrutinizing the ceiling, the tapestries, the fixtures. Finally both sit down on the same side of the room, where they have an unobstructed view of the kitchen. The taller one eyes Dean curiously and makes a note before leaning over and whispering something to the other. Unsure of what to do, I stand across from them, arms folded over my chest.
The detectives look comfortable, as if they’re staying awhile.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I offer. “Coffee? Tea?”
“No, thank you,” Detective Shaw responds, linking his fingers together between his knees. He cranes around to eye the stairs. “Who else is in the home this morning, Mr. Harris?”
“My chef, Dean Lewis.” I point into the kitchen. “My housekeeper Samara is upstairs. And my girlfriend Colleen as well. What’s this about?”
Patel clears his throat. “Mr. Harris, when was the last time you spoke with your wife?” Shaw’s staring at me skeptically.
“Dean, come here for a moment,” I call. When he rounds the granite island and enters the living room, he looks nervous. “You don’t have anything cooking at the moment, do you?”
He shakes his head slowly.
“Good. Give us a few minutes to talk in private, will you?”
He doesn’t say a word as he grabs his things, but his movements radiate irritation. He bangs the door on his way out. When I turn my attention back to the detectives, they’re both looking at me like I’m some sort of weird bug they’ve just discovered.
“It’s been a while since I’ve spoken with Joanna,” I say steadily. “July, I believe.”
But I know the exact day. How could I forget?
“Do you happen to remember your last conversation?” Patel asks serenely.
I shake my head. I feel like I’m going to vomit.
“Not exactly.” I hear footsteps upstairs. Colleen must be out of the shower. “I’m confused as to why you’re here. Did Joanna request an escort to pick up her property or something?”
Detective Patel leans back in the chair. “What property do you have of Mrs. Harris’s?”
I don’t like to think of Joanna as Mrs. Harris. The irritation sounds in my voice. “Everything. As far as I know, she left with nothing but the clothes on her back.”
I boxed up a few impersonal things right away—candles, blankets, her favorite set of china, small appliances I wouldn’t use—and moved them out into the garage. But her most intimate possessions—clothes and perfume and pictures—have all remained in her room. It was one of the reasons I never told Colleen about Ravenwood. Joanna left in July, and Colleen got pregnant in August. How could I tell her I was still holding
on to those memories?
When the doctor advised Colleen to stay somewhere she could rest for the sake of her pregnancy, I knew this solution could benefit both of us.
She’d already filled the void Joanna left in my heart.
Soon she’d do the same for my home.
And maybe one day soon, I would finally clear out the east wing.
Detective Shaw looks up from his notebook. “Mr. Harris, when did your wife leave the marital home?”
“July.” My attention flickers between them. “July sixteenth, to be specific.”
“And, just to be clear, you’re stating that Mrs. Harris didn’t take anything with her when she left?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t that strike you as strange?”
Chewing on the inside of my lip, I wonder how they expect me to answer such a question. “I suppose so.”
“Why do you think she left everything behind?”
“Why does a wife leave her husband of five years? I have no idea. I can only assume she left everything here because she wanted to start a new life—one without me, or anything that would remind her of me, in it.”
The words carve a hole right through the center of me because I know they’re true.
“What about her wedding ring?” Shaw asks nonchalantly. “Did she leave that behind too?”
I pause, thinking back to the last day I saw her. It was the morning of our anniversary. She’d had her diamond on, I’m sure of it. The only reason I remember is because I’d taken her hand that morning and kissed it. The angles of her diamond had pressed into my lips. I’d wished her a happy anniversary and told her I’d see her at dinner that evening.
She never showed.
I’d received a goodbye text instead. I don’t blame her really. Not after the blowup we’d had the night before.
“As far as I know she took her wedding ring with her.” And then it clicks. “She’s missing her ring, isn’t she? That’s why you’re here. She thinks I took it. She’s reported it stolen.”
“She is missing her ring, but that’s not the whole story.” Shaw’s eyes drift over my shoulder. “You must be Colleen.”
I turn. She’s wearing black leggings and an oversized sweater, her hair damp and falling loose across her shoulders. Even from where I stand, I can smell the sweet scent of her conditioner.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
Going over to her, I drape my arm around her shoulders and tug her against me. “They’re here looking for Joanna’s wedding ring.”
She frowns and opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, Patel says, “Maybe you two should sit down.”
I glare at him, then release Colleen and plop onto the couch. I get the bizarre feeling that my legs aren’t a part of the rest of my body. Colleen sits beside me, her hand clutching my knee.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. Harris,” Patel continues, “but your wife, Joanna Harris, is dead. We believe her body was the one we recovered in the grove across the street.”
“I’m sorry,” I muster, rubbing my eyes in an attempt to wipe away the blur. “I—I can’t believe—That has to be wrong. You must be mistaken.”
“I’m afraid we’re not,” Shaw says. I’m really starting to dislike him. “Partial DNA came back an hour ago. Her sister called after being notified by a friend about last night’s news broadcast. She’d been out of the country since June, and hadn’t thought much about the lack of contact with her sister…until she learned that a woman’s body was discovered across the street from Joanna’s home.”
“My home,” I correct.
“Your home.” Shaw eyes me carefully. “Working with law enforcement in L.A., Heather—Joanna’s sister—came in and volunteered to have her cheek swabbed. There were a significant number of shared markers between her DNA and that of the woman we found.”
“How long has she been out there?” I say, though the words are rough, more like a croak.
“Approximately six months, according to the coroner.”
Six months.
I have walked on that path a hundred times since then. Walked right over her.
The thought is more than I can take.
A pair of hands grip my hand. “Are you okay, sweetheart? God, I’m so sorry.”
Me too.
I wish I could tell Joanna how sorry I am for everything. What I wouldn’t give to go back and replay the last night we were together. I said such terrible things. Christ, I was awful. A demon, she’d said. For the last six months, I damned her for leaving, for saying the things she did, for walking out without looking back, and all this time, she was out there. Buried beneath the dark umbrella of cypresses.
“The baby.” I can’t breathe. Nausea rises in my throat. “What about the baby?”
“I’m sorry.” That bastard Shaw looks smug. “We can’t reveal much at this point, but as of mid-July, and the day we believe she was buried out there, Joanna Harris wasn’t pregnant.”
“I don’t—I can’t…I hear what you’re saying, but the words aren’t coming together.”
“To put it plainly, Mr. Harris, your wife wasn’t pregnant when she died.”
I retch onto the hardwood.
DETECTIVE SHAW
Once Michael Harris recovered, and their housekeeper cleaned up the mess he’d made on the floor, we asked if they would allow us to escort them to the station. Informally, of course. We read them both their rights, but made sure they knew they were not under arrest and could leave at any time they pleased. Patel also informed them of their right to have a lawyer present. Both declined, which is what we were hoping for.
Keep it light. Keep it informal. Lock them into a story they can’t escape from.
On the surface, it may appear as if I know very little. I ask questions about small, seemingly insignificant things. Behind the scenes, however, our investigation is moving fast.
There are many things we already know for certain.
Michael Harris took out a $25 million life insurance policy on his wife last year. She also took one out on him. His business, Harris Financial, is in trouble, and has been for some time. Late in the evening on July fifteenth, Joanna fought with her husband. Uniforms were called to their home for a domestic dispute, but in the end, she didn’t press charges, so her husband wasn’t arrested. According to Michael Harris, she left him the following day.
Some time soon thereafter, Joanna Harris was murdered.
Cause of death? Blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. The murder weapon was most likely a shovel or other garden tool, considering that the back of her skull was smashed in the shape of a spade. We haven’t found the weapon yet, but we’re hopeful something will come up in the search of Michael Harris’s shed. Toxicology hasn’t come back yet, but we expect a report in the next few days. It’s standard procedure to order the report, but we’re curious to know whether the victim had any drugs or toxicants in her system when she was killed.
After identifying the victim as Joanna Harris, Patel obtained a search warrant for the Harris home. He’s working on a search warrant for Harris’s phone and for his call records as well as those of his wife. One detective on the team is digging into Harris’s financial dealings. Another is contacting Joanna’s doctors.
We’re painting a picture, and it’s not looking good for Harris. Patel thinks all signs point to him as our killer. A crime of passion, perhaps? Or a continuation of the fight that led the neighbors to call 911 on July fifteenth? But there are snags in his otherwise smooth line of thinking.
A gold medallion with the Virgin Mary etched into the front was around Joanna’s neck, a topaz gemstone cradled in the Virgin Mother’s hands. The gem is the birthstone for November, but Joanna’s birthday was in August, which makes he
r gemstone a lime green peridot.
She’s also missing her wedding ring.
It’s true, I might be overthinking both things. Someone could have given her the necklace, and maybe she kept it for sentimental reasons.
And it’s quite possible she removed her diamond wedding ring after leaving her husband. But where is it now? It wasn’t on her corpse when we dug it up.
Since there aren’t any pawnshops in Point Reina, I make a note to check ones located between Ravenwood and the city.
Our investigation is far from finished. I’m just digging my hooks in.
I’ve fired off calls to Dean Lewis, the Harris’s chef, and Samara Graves, their housekeeper, along with the groundskeeper. We need to get formal statements from them as soon as possible. In all my years on the force, I’ve learned one thing from hired help: they know more about what’s going on in a home than the people who live within its walls. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, they know about marital troubles, too. I’m banking on the fact that the staff will be able to shed some light on the dynamic between Harris and his late wife.
Especially considering the most troubling puzzle piece in the case.
Joanna wasn’t pregnant at the time of her death.
We’re assuming she was pregnant at some point, since Harris seems to adamantly believe that she was, but we don’t even know that for certain. Dates given by her doctor—who refuses to say much, citing patient privacy under the HIPAA laws—reveal she was due in for her next appointment at the beginning of June, the start of her second trimester. She never showed. If she’d had a late-term miscarriage, there should be a record of Joanna Harris checking into a hospital to give birth, even if the fetus was stillborn. We’re looking into hospitals and doctors’ offices in the area, though thus far, no luck.
We’ve also considered the possibility that Joanna might have gone back to using Buchanan, her maiden name. No luck there, either.
Had Joanna miscarried much earlier in the pregnancy and not said anything to her husband? If that’s the case, how had he not noticed that her stomach wasn’t growing?
In Her Shadow Page 11