The Loyal Wife

by Natalie Barelli

  “…proud to announce my candidature for governor of our great state!”

  * * *

  I thought Mike was going to grab Pastor Frank by the lapels of his jacket and throw him against the wall. I don’t think I would have tried to stop him, either. And then, in the blink of an eye, his features went from roaring enraged to—calm?

  “All right. Let’s go.” He takes my hand in his, and we leave.

  He’s literally dragging me down the street to the car. I ask him to slow down. “I’m in my six-inch Louboutins, Mike!” But he doesn’t hear me, or pretends not to, and all I can do is hang on for dear life. Thankfully, the car isn’t that far, and I make it without flying headfirst into the sidewalk.

  “It’s him,” he says quietly, but that’s a ploy to make me relax because when I ask, “Who’s him?” suddenly he’s banging on the steering wheel.

  “Fucking Frank. Unbelievable! What a grade-A asshole!”

  “Yeah, that was rough, not letting us in like that,” I say.

  He snaps his head around and stares at me like he’s only just noticed I’m here. “Don’t you get it? Frank’s the leak!” he says.

  I don’t get it, but that’s okay because he turns sideways to face me fully, and he explains it all to me, his faced flushed with rage.

  “We gave Frank twenty grand for his church, but I’ll bet my bottom dollar that Brad King more than matched it. That’s why he was there that night, at the sermon. He came to sniff out the competition, then he upped the offer. Then Frank, being the greedy prick that he is, decided to take Brad King up on it.” He slams his palm on the steering wheel. “I’ve been conned.”

  He stares at me, frowning, waiting for a sign that I understand what he’s saying.

  “Right.” I say, nodding. “But also, if you don’t mind me saying, Mike, you’re damaged goods. That could be why he dumped you as candidate, in favor of Brad King.”

  Mike shakes his head, blinking quickly. “No Tamra, you don’t understand. Frank leaked the story about me and Charlene, so that he would have a good excuse to walk away and take Brad King’s money instead. Problem solved.”

  I pretend to think about it. “Okay, I can see how that works,” I say.

  “Damn right!” he exclaims.

  But then I add, like an afterthought, “Or! To play devil’s advocate here—see what I did there?—anyway, it’s also possible that with Charlene turning up dead, Frank might have thought the story was a bit too hot for him to sponsor you, if that’s the term here. I mean he did have some involvement with the… the intervention. And please watch the road, Mike, you’re making me nervous.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mike’s only just left for work this morning, but I’m still in bed. I desperately want to catch up on some sleep. He’s kept me up half the night with his rants about how he was going to get his money back, and Frank better watch himself because he knows a thing or two about what’s going on in that phoney church of his. By the time I fell into a slumber, it must have been close to two am.

  My phone rings. I put the pillow over my head, but then I change my mind and reach for it. I’m about to put it back on the bedside table because it’s a blocked call, and in my experience that’s usually either bad news or someone trying to sell me something I don’t need, but then I think of Fiona Martin and she wouldn’t reveal her number if she called me, so I answer.

  “Tamra Mitchell speaking.”

  There’s a short, sharp gasp at the end of the line.

  “Who is this?” And I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but it sounds like a woman’s whisper. Or maybe someone covering the phone.

  Well, well, well. And who might you be? I wonder to myself, And before I know it, I’m yelling like a mad woman.

  “I know who you are. How dare you call my number? How did you get my number? Mike won’t take your calls, is that it? He wants nothing to do with you anymore! Slut!”

  But she hangs up on me.

  I’m not going back to sleep now. I’m so angry I could scream. How dare she call me? I stare at the ceiling, going round in circles in my head trying to figure out why The Slut would call me now. Or maybe it wasn’t her. I mean, she’s moved on, hasn’t she? Mike sure doesn’t look like he’s screwing around. He wouldn’t have the time! And we’ve barely been apart those last few days.

  I’m still trying to figure it out when I hear a car pulling up outside, and for a moment I think Mike’s back. But then the doorbell rings, and I pull back the covers and swing my legs out of bed. I put on my robe and I’m about to enter the bathroom when Madison is at my door.

  “It’s the cops,” she says, one naked foot resting on top of the other.

  “Really? Is it about last night? The scuffle between Mike and Frank? I mean, Pastor Frank?”

  “I don’t know. It’s the same cops that were here before.”

  “Well, Mike’s not here, can you tell them? He’s gone to work already.”

  “It’s you they want.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I grab my yoga pants from the back of the chair and a sweatshirt and I’m dressed in a flash. My hands feel sweaty and my heart is beating too fast. I tell myself not to panic, but it doesn’t quell the tightness in my chest. I quickly grab my cell and call Lauren. It goes straight to voicemail.

  “Hey Lauren! Just remember if anyone asks, I was with you that night, okay?” I whisper, brightly.

  When I reach the top of the stairs, I can see both O’Brien and Torres at the door, waiting silently. I take a breath and walk down as nonchalantly as I can.

  “My husband isn’t here right now, Detective, he’s left for work already. You’ll have to call him there.” I’m praying that Madison got it wrong and they’ll apologize for disturbing me at this early hour and then they’ll go away.

  “We don’t need your husband, it’s you we want to talk to, Mrs. Mitchell,” Torres says, and my legs wobble. I desperately want to sit down, but instead I hang onto the bottom of the banister a little tighter, and stand taller, like I’m some aged movie star in a dramatic moment.

  “I’m busy, Detective, so that’s a no. And you heard my husband. He doesn’t like you talking to me, and I agree with him. It’s not right to pit a wife against her husband, don’t you think? No. You probably don’t.”

  “Mrs. Mitchell—”

  “I know my rights. You can’t make me testify against my husband. Everyone knows that.” I feel dizzy. I’m still hanging onto the banister, and I grip it hard for support.

  “We’d love to chat all day and discuss the finer points of the law, Mrs. Mitchell, but we’re not here to ask about your husband. We have questions for you, and we’d like you to come with us. Now.”

  My stomach turns to jelly. “Come with you where?”

  “To the station, Ma’am.”

  I scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going with you to the station. I suppose I can spare a few minutes if you want to talk here.” I turn to indicate the living room, trying to stop my hand from shaking, and I see Madison standing a few steps behind me, biting the side of her thumb.

  There’s something in her eyes and when O’Brien says, “I can go and get a warrant for your arrest right now, Mrs. Mitchell, if that’s what you prefer.” It occurs to me that Madison is actually really frightened.

  * * *

  The journey is a blur. They’ve put me in the back of an unmarked car, thank God, because I don’t think I could bear the embarrassment. I keep asking them why they need to talk to me, but all I get is, “Just wait until we get there, Mrs. Mitchell.”

  And now we’re here, and I’m desperately trying to get a take on what’s going on. When a young woman in uniform takes me to an interview room and asks if I want some water, I’m thinking that it can’t be so bad then, right? The cops don’t offer drinks to hardened criminals, do they? Or is it a human rights rule or something? That no matter how bad the crime, the suspect should be offered refreshments?

  I
turn it down, and she tells me to take a seat and leaves the room. My heart is beating too fast. Now I wish I’d taken up her offer because my mouth is getting dry. The only sound is an annoying buzz from the fluorescent lights. There are no windows and that, along with the dark gray walls, is beginning to make me feel claustrophobic. Maybe I could tell them I don’t feel well. That I need an ambulance. They’d let me go then, wouldn’t they? I drum my fingers on the table. Why did they leave me here, alone in this room? I look around for a camera and sure enough, there’s one in the corner, just below the ceiling. Are they watching me? I wonder what would happen if I just got up and left. Then I wonder if the door is locked. Of course not. I’m being ridiculous.

  When the door finally opens, I jump. Torres and O’Brien come in, each carrying a folder, and they sit down opposite me at the table. I try to read their faces. Is it bad? I give them a quick smile and rub my palms against my thighs.

  “Why did Charlene Donovan have your phone number on her?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your phone number. It was tucked in the pocket of her jeans. Can you tell us why?”

  My chest hurts. It’s like someone punched me in the gut and it makes me lose my breath for a second. “Are you sure it was my number?” The words come out thick and blurry, like my mouth doesn’t work properly.

  “We called it. Thirty minutes ago.”

  My head is spinning. Nothing makes sense. I didn’t talk to the cops this morning, did I? I’ve only been up for maybe an hour, why can’t I remember? Maybe I was half asleep, but I’m sure the only call I got this morning was—

  “That was you?”

  She nods.

  Oh, God. “But why didn’t you say something? Why did you hang up?”

  “We called the number we found on Charlene’s body. We didn’t know it was yours.”

  I’m trying to make sense of this, but it’s hurting my head. I rub two fingers on my temples. “You must have had that piece of paper for days, and you waited all this time to bring it up?”

  “The paper was faded, it took a while to identify. As of this morning we know that it’s your cell phone number.”

  I’m going to be sick.

  “Why would she have your phone number, Mrs. Mitchell?”

  I can’t even get the words out. I shake my head.

  “Mrs. Mitchell,” O’Brien says. “We are trying to find out who murdered Charlene Donovan.”

  “I want to make a phone call.”

  * * *

  I stand outside in the parking lot and I call Mike. He says he already knows I’m here because Madison called him. I want to ask him why he didn’t get in touch right away if he already knew. There are no messages from him, no missed calls, but I don’t bring it up.

  “I’m scared, Mike. I’m really frightened. You’ve got to help me.”

  “It’s going to be okay, babe. I promise,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. “I’m coming to get you, you got that?”

  “They said she had my phone number on her, in her pocket,” I whine. “What am I supposed to say?”

  “They haven’t arrested you, have they?”

  “Jesus, no! Why would they arrest me?” I can’t breathe. My heart is thumping in my ears. Arrested? “I have to tell them everything, okay? I can’t hide the truth any longer, if I do, I’ll—oh, God.”

  “So you tell them, babe. You go for it. It’s time we just told the truth and then we can move on.”

  I close my eyes. I can feel the weight lifting off me. “You mean that?”

  “You bet.”

  I take a deep gulp of air. It feels like the first time I’ve taken a proper breath since the police arrived at my house. “Thank God. You have no idea what those words mean to me.”

  “It’ll be okay, Tamra.”

  “Should we call Alex Pace?”

  “It’s up to you. I can call him if you want me to. But it’s just an informal chat, right?”

  Is there such a thing as an informal chat with the police? “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “I’m coming right over, okay?”

  “Oh, Mike. Please come. I won’t let you down, I swear.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  “Mike?”

  “Yes?”

  “I won’t tell them what I saw that night. I swear. You can trust me, okay?”

  There’s silence and for a moment I wonder if we got cut off, then he asks, “What night, baby doll?”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I’m still sitting in the interview room by myself when O’Brien comes in with another guy I’ve never seen before. “This is Detective Cal Shaw, Mrs. Mitchell. He’s going to take your statement.”

  Weirdly, all I can think of is that this guy is drop dead gorgeous. He’s a lot like Mike—same build, same dark hair that falls a bit off his forehead, and he has the same gesture, too, the way he pushes it away. But Cal has blue eyes, whereas Mike has deep brown eyes. Almost black. And Cal looks like he’s in his mid-thirties. Mike’s fifty-two. But because I have pea soup where my brain used to be, I decide that if I flirt with this guy, he’ll go easy on me, and he’ll let me go.

  I smile, bring both hands up to tidy up my hair.

  “You’re okay with that, Mrs. Mitchell?” Cal Shaw asks and I suddenly get the feeling it’s the second time and they’ve been waiting for a reply already.

  I nod quickly. “Yes, yes, absolutely.” I check out his hands and feel a tingle of hope at the discovery of a clean, ring-less finger. “But only if you call me Tamra,” I add, all coy. Knowing deep down that I’m really going completely crazy.

  He flicks me a raised eyebrow and says, “And you can call me Detective Shaw. I note that you declined having a lawyer present.”

  “That’s correct.” Mike’s right. It’s just an informal chat. I have nothing to fear. Asking for a lawyer is a sign of guilt. Everyone knows that.

  He explains to me that I’m here to make a statement and it’s my choice. I can leave when I choose.

  “I know that, it’s all good,” I reply.

  “Can you explain to us why she had your phone number?”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “Okay, that’s good to know.” He jots something down.

  Suddenly, it’s too much. The stress of the last few days. The tears come in one big sob. I wipe my nose on my sleeve. “Sorry. I’m scared. I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “Tell me what you know, Tamra,” Shaw says. I notice O’Brien’s quick, disapproving frown. I guess she objects to him calling me by my first name. Or maybe they’re setting up a good cop / bad cop thing.

  I quickly run both hands over my face. “Is Mike here?”

  “Not yet.”

  I put the heel of my hands against my eyes and then almost in a whisper, I say, “I drove her to the abortion clinic.”

  I can tell from their faces that whatever they expected, it wasn’t that. I tell them my story—or part of it, anyway. “I drove her there because Mike asked me to. He was paying her a whole lot of money to have this abortion. That was the deal. That’s why we had to sell the house near Badin Lake. He wanted to be sure she went to the clinic at the appointed time, and only then would he transfer the money. He said he couldn’t trust anyone to do it, except me. And he couldn’t do it himself, for obvious reasons. So I agreed to drive her.”

  “Why couldn’t she drive herself?” O’Brien asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t think she had a car.” And before she asks why she wouldn’t find a different mode of transportation, I say, “And he wanted to be sure she got there. He didn’t want her to change her mind at the last minute. That’s why he asked me. I was to pick her up and take her there.”

  I think back to that night, when he told me about the affair. He looked so… frightened, so fragile. He was on his knees, holding my hands. “You have to help me. I can’t do this without you,” he’d said. I really believed he’d been taken advantage of. That he had been wea
k, because she had been relentless. Because that’s how she made a living. She seduced weak men then she found a way to extract money from them. That’s what he said and that’s what I believed. Damn right, I was going to help him.

  O’Brien pushes a notepad across the table in my direction. “Can you write down the name and address of the clinic? And the exact date and time that you drove her.”

  I write down the details. I know them by heart of course, I already went through this with Fiona Martin.

  “Did you pick her up, too?” Shaw asks.

  There it is. The question I’ve been dreading. I don’t reply right away. Instead I take my time, keep writing, pretend I have difficulties remembering all the details.

  “No,” I say at last. My heart beats a little faster as I wait for one of them to ask me why. Why didn’t you pick her up, Tamra? Because someone else did, that’s why. And then she died.

  “Did you talk to anyone there?” O’Brien asks.

  Just as I reply, “No” there’s a knock at the door, and a young woman in uniform pops her head in. I’m exhausted, overcome with it. I watch O’Brien get up and they have a quiet word with each other.

  “Your husband’s just arrived, Mrs. Mitchell,” she says.

  “Oh, thank God.” I put my head on my forearms for a minute, then I sit up again and say, “Can he come in? He’ll corroborate. Ask him anything. He’ll vouch for me. You’ll see.”

  When he walks in, I spring out of my chair so fast it would have fallen over if it hadn’t been bolted to the floor. I throw my arms around him, but he barely looks at me and gently takes hold of my shoulders, pushing me away.