In Her Shadow

by Kristin Miller

  “Never.”

  “What about your wife?” Poor Colleen always flinches when I call the dead woman his wife—kid’s really got it bad for Harris. “Might he have been a doctor who treated her at some point?”

  Michael’s nostrils flare slightly. “Might have been, but I wouldn’t know. The name isn’t familiar and Joanna’s not here to ask.”

  He’s pissed, and I can’t blame him. We’re in his home, challenging everything he tells us.

  “How long have you owned this home?” I ask, pretending I haven’t noticed his mounting anger.

  “Five years,” he fires back. “I already told you this. Joanna and I bought it right after we got married.”

  But I need to hear some answers again, to make sure they don’t change.

  Colleen perks up. “Any chance,” she asks me, “that those pills belong to the person who lived here before them?”

  “Could be.” But that’s not what I’m thinking. “We’ll look into that.”

  My guess? Someone—probably Joanna—bought the drugs illegally. It may not lead to anything, but it’s a thread to start pulling. If nothing else, it allows me to follow the trail to Mandy McKnight, and opens up the possibility of another cube sliding into place.

  “Anything else?” Michael asks flatly.

  “We’re taking in some of your garden tools. We’ll bring them back as soon as we clear them.”

  “Garden tools?” Colleen parrots. “What for?”

  “From what we can tell, Joanna was struck in the back of the head with something.”

  “Detective Shaw, don’t take this the wrong way,” Colleen says sweetly, “but do you really think Michael would strike Joanna with something, and then keep the shovel in his cupboard?”

  I almost laugh at her candor, or arguably, her naïveté. And I hadn’t said shovel. So what made her think the murder weapon was a shovel?

  “Honey,” Michael says, releasing her hand to squeeze her knee. “You’re not helping.”

  “It just doesn’t make any sense.” Her eyes go wide. “Why would he leave the murder weapon lying around with—”

  “Coll,” he soothes, rubbing his hand over her thigh. “Stop.”

  Clamping her mouth shut, she leans back into the cushions and again rests her hands protectively over the small swell of her belly.

  “Mr. Harris, I notice your housekeeper stepped out some time ago. Did she leave for the day?”

  “No, she’s been outside, waiting for us to finish.”

  Perfect. “Could you please send her in? Tell her I’ll be upstairs. In the east wing.”

  I watch him carefully as he processes what I’ve said, and what it means. That we’ve found his wife’s room—the one set up for her to sleep in alone. And we’ve found the nursery for their child, eerily preserved after that child disappeared. I study the slow tensing of his jaw. The hard, steeliness of his eyes. He doesn’t even need to say a word.

  I’ve got him.

  “Of course,” he answers through gritted teeth. “I’ll send her right up. Anything else, Detective?”

  “One more thing,” I say, standing. “Do either of you have any trips coming up? Anything that might take you out of the area?”

  Harris doesn’t answer. Standing quickly, he slings their bags over his shoulder and extends his hand to help Colleen up. She has a petite frame, but her pregnancy makes her a little awkward in rising.

  “No, I don’t think we’ll go anywhere,” she says, following him to the door. “We’re staying close to my doctor in the city. Just in case, for our baby.”

  As the front door opens, reporters swarm from their cars and vans. Cameras roll. Microphones wave toward Michael. Questions whiz through the air like rapid gunfire.

  “Staying close is a good idea,” I say, stepping up behind them. “We need to be able to get ahold of you quickly in case we have other questions.”

  Or want to make an arrest.

  * * *

  “You asked to see me?”

  I’m going through Joanna’s bedroom, sifting through the drawers of her nightstand, when the stern voice pierces the stillness. I crane my neck around. A very fat, very short woman is standing in the doorway, eyeing me skeptically. Her skin is a smooth caramel, and her eyes a rich brown. Guessing from the gray streaks over her ears, and the slight wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, I’d say she’s about to hit sixty.

  “I’m Detective Shaw,” I say, getting to my feet and extending my hand. “You must be Samara Graves.”

  She walks into the room and gives my hand a limp shake. “Mr. Harris said you wanted a word with me? Would you like to talk downstairs in the library?”

  “No, here will do,” I reply, then watch a shadow flit across her eyes. “I just needed to ask you a few questions about Joanna Harris.”

  Folding her hands in front of her, she stares grimly at the drawer I’d just been sorting through. “What would you like to know, Detective?”

  “Do you happen to remember where you were in July of last year?”

  “I was in Aruba.”

  “The whole month?”

  “From the end of June through the end of July.”

  “Long vacation.”

  “It wasn’t one,” she says crisply. “I’m from Aruba originally. My mother was in the hospital. She needed care for a few weeks until my brother could take over full-time.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She broke her hip going down some stairs. She’ll be walking again soon. I appreciate your asking.” She removes her phone from her back pocket and begins swiping her finger over the screen. And then, finding the thing she was searching for, Samara Graves spins the screen around for me to see. “Here’s my flight itinerary. I know it doesn’t show that I actually took the trip, but I can send you time-stamped pictures of me and my mother in her hospital room to prove I was out of the country, if you’d like.”

  “That would be great. Email them here, thanks.” I hand her my business card and point to my email address listed at the bottom. “Were you close with Mrs. Harris?”

  “Detective Shaw,” she says, dropping my card into her pocket without glancing at it, “I worked for Joanna Harris for nearly five years, since the day they bought Ravenwood. Joanna is—was—not only one of my favorite employers, but one of my greatest friends. My whole family is back in Aruba, so I appreciated the closeness we shared, probably more than she ever knew. I want to find the person who did this to her as much as you do. You can count on me to help any way I can.”

  An ally. Great. Or, I correct myself, someone who wants me to believe they’re willing to be an ally.

  I watch as Samara Graves pushes the nightstand drawer closed, and wonder if it’s her habit to follow someone and fix what he or she had left in disorder.

  “When did she begin sleeping in here?” I ask.

  “Last May. Joanna was three months pregnant at the time.”

  “Had her relationship with Mr. Harris deteriorated that badly?”

  “You’d have to ask Mr. Harris about that.”

  “But you said you were close with Mrs. Harris. Like best friends. Surely she told you something? Women talk about their relationships with their friends.”

  She didn’t blink. “I know she needed space. There were times Mr. Harris could be overbearing.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “Any specifics you can recall?”

  “It was just a general feeling that she wanted more freedom, which made him hold on to her tighter. A dynamic like that can be a vicious circle.”

  “And this room,” I say, spreading my arms, “was a way to hold on to her memory?”

  “I suppose you could say that. I’ve asked Mr. Harris many times about remodeling or redecorating, a
nd each time he insisted I drop the topic. He wanted to make sure it was kept exactly the way it was when she lived here.”

  If he’s innocent, and had no idea Joanna had been murdered, perhaps he was simply keeping her room for the day she returned. But if he killed her, and had been keeping the room as a shrine to her memory…

  “Did Joanna have any other close friends we should be talking to? Or any enemies who’d want to hurt her?”

  “As far as close friends, no. Joanna didn’t have any. I know Rachael Martin from next door would like to think they were best friends, but that wasn’t exactly the case. Rachael got on Joanna’s nerves.” She shakes her head. “And Joanna had no enemies. None.”

  “At least none that you know of.”

  The look she shoots me could cut glass. “Joanna was extremely generous with her time and money, witty, beautiful, and usually the most intelligent person in the room. Who could hate someone like that?”

  I refrain from pointing out that this witty, beautiful, generous woman was murdered. Obviously there was someone who didn’t think as highly of her as her maid.

  “Does Rachael Martin have any idea that Joanna wasn’t particularly fond of her?” I ask instead.

  “Of course not.”

  “What about Joanna’s pregnancy?” I probe deeper. “Was there anything unusual about it? Especially as the summer drew near?”

  Samara Graves swipes her hand over the comforter as if smoothing out a wrinkle from where Joanna Harris had sat moments before. “I took Joanna to every prenatal appointment she scheduled. I don’t believe a woman should be going to those appointments alone, and Mr. Harris wouldn’t accompany her. It was a special time…until she lost the baby.”

  It’s what we’ve suspected, but hearing it spoken so plainly nearly causes me to startle in excitement. “When was that?”

  “Mid-May.”

  “Are you absolutely certain of that timing?”

  She looks me square in the eye. “Yes. It was a dreadful time—one I will never forget. I was the only one here to console her through her grief.”

  “What about Mr. Harris?” Because he certainly seemed surprised to learn that his wife wasn’t pregnant when we discovered her. “Did he know about the miscarriage?”

  “He didn’t at the time.” She folds her hands in front of her. “Joanna didn’t know how to tell him, and I don’t blame her. How do you tell your husband that you’ve lost his child? That can’t be something that slides easily off the lips. But I’m sure he knows now.” Her gaze darts over my shoulder. “Are we finished, Detective Shaw? Because now that Mr. Harris has brought a new mistress into the house, I’ve got double the work to do.”

  “Nearly finished,” I say, because now she’s brought up something else. “What are your thoughts on Colleen Roper?”

  To my astonishment, a wide smile brightens her face. “I’m very happy with my job, Detective.”

  “But that’s not what I—”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Roper.” Samara Graves stands ramrod straight, her eyes locked on mine. “How can I help you?”

  I follow her line of sight over my shoulder. Colleen Roper steps into the room, treading carefully, her gaze skipping nervously from me to Samara Graves.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice low. “I don’t mean to interrupt….I was just checking to make sure that you’d found the detective up here. Michael said—”

  “I’ve been cleaning this wing for five years,” the housekeeper interrupts. “I’m sure I can find my way. Good day, miss. Detective Shaw, I’ll email you the required information on my break.”

  I thank her for her cooperation as she leaves, and before I can take advantage of the chance to speak with Colleen again, Harris charges into the room.

  “Colleen?” He’s barreling toward us as if the four-poster bed is on fire. “Are you in here?”

  He stops when he sees me, then acknowledges my presence with a quick nod. Colleen spins around to meet his stare head-on, and waves of tension heat the room to stifling in seconds.

  “I didn’t”—he starts, and then quiets—“I didn’t mean for you to see this. Not yet.”

  “Then when?” she whispers, her lower lip quivering.

  “Detective Shaw,” Harris says, his eyes locked on his lover’s, “would you give us a few minutes alone, please? We’ll leave after that, I promise. Just…one minute.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “We really need you to make your way out so we can continue the search. I’m sure you can understand the importance of what we’re doing here—”

  “Michael?” Colleen cuts in.

  Harris exhales noisily. “Of course. Let’s go, Colleen.”

  MICHAEL

  The moment we step out of Ravenwood and the salty sea air hits me, I feel more at ease, despite the fact that the reporters are still hovering. I take Colleen’s hand to guide her toward the Martins’, but she doesn’t curl her fingers around mine. It’s as if she’s turned to stone.

  “I should’ve shown you that earlier.” I wish she’d never seen it. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now, but that was Joanna’s bedroom. If nothing else, it should show you how strained we were near the end. She moved out of our bedroom in May. I hardly saw her after that.”

  “You haven’t told the police this, have you?”

  God bless her for having my back. “Of course not.” Glancing up, I scan the second-story windows, certain Detective Shaw is there, spying on us. But there’s no sign of his stout figure. “Do you have any idea how bad that would seem? They don’t need any more encouragement to think we were fighting. They’re only going to make the leap that I killed her. They’ll probably think I did it because she was going to leave me and take half of everything.”

  Someone shouts my name, and, as if the reporters have just now noticed our exit, they swell onto the sidewalk, hitting us with a roar of questions. I push through the crowd, shielding Colleen under my arm, and give a hard yank on the Martins’ doorknob. It turns—thank God they left it open for us—and we nearly fall into their foyer. I slam the door, and listen to the grumble of reporters as they draw back to the street. My head is pounding.

  “Michael?” Rachael calls from somewhere upstairs. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah,” I holler. “Give us a minute alone, would you?”

  Rachael doesn’t respond, but I know she received the message when she doesn’t race down the stairs to greet us. I help Colleen to her feet. She’s clutching her belly protectively, and her eyes are cloudy with questions. She just won’t let it go.

  “Why would you keep everything the same?” she whispers. “If I’m being honest, Michael, it’s a little creepy.”

  I shove my hands in my pockets and shrug. My heart turns to stone as I remember installing the tiny mobile over the crib, and watching Joanna fit sheets to the mattress where our baby would’ve slept.

  “I wanted to change it, so many times,” I say. “But each time, Samara would talk me out of it. She’d talk about the possibility of Joanna coming back, about building our family. She was so determined to keep the rooms that way. Any time I pushed back, I’d feel guilty about gutting the place.”

  “I thought—” She is so pale that I worry about her. “Do you want our baby to sleep in there?”

  “God, Colleen, no. That wasn’t my plan at all.” I pull her against me, and feel the softness of her body yielding to mine. “Unless that’s what you want.”

  She tilts her head to look up at me, and I can’t read her expression. It’s a bizarre mixture of confusion and—I’m not sure, but it seems to be—knowledge. She’s quiet for so long, I’m not sure she’s going to respond at all. When she does, I’m relieved; her voice is confident.

  “I want to put the past behind us,” she says, defiantly. �
�I want to move on with you and our baby. But if you’re still holding on to something you can’t get back, how can we possibly be happy with our future? Do you understand?”

  “I do.” That damn detective had to come in here and rattle our cages, didn’t he? Bastard. I could’ve gotten rid of those rooms in my own time, without upsetting Colleen. “But you have to understand: even a past that’s dead and buried can rise up. I wish it were easier to put it all to bed, darling. You know I do.”

  As Rachael clatters down the stairs, announcing her entrance with some obnoxious pleasantry, Colleen pulls out of my arms to greet her. And I’m left standing alone, my back to the door.

  What the hell was I thinking, saying those things to her? Why can’t I be like every other guy and promise her the moon and stars with no exceptions? I know what she wants: for me to say I’m completely over Joanna. It’d be easy to say, to give her all the reassurance she needs—but I can’t lie.

  RACHAEL

  It’s strange having another couple around. They throw off our routine.

  I’m usually curled up on the couch at night watching my favorite shows. Reality television mostly. Housewives from any county. Athletic wives. Celebrity wives. Wives and mistresses. Court television. Dating shows with more roses than morals. Baking cook-offs. Surviving in the wild, nude or otherwise. Doesn’t matter what it’s about. Show me real people with real problems, however sensational. Let me peek behind the curtain into their homes and their messy lives, and I’m hooked.

  It makes me feel better to know I’m not the only one with issues, not the only one barely keeping things afloat.

  It’s exhausting trying to keep up the façade sometimes.

  Travis doesn’t watch much television—he despises “reality TV garbage”—so when I’m on the couch Netflix and chilling by myself, he’s upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms playing his guitar or writing music.

  It gets lonely sometimes, but it’s how we make it work. I get what I need, and so does he.